


Something to Be

by aguantare



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Football, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-21 00:40:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aguantare/pseuds/aguantare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis plays football for UCLA; Harry used to love football.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: don't know them, don't own them, don't sue me

Harry takes the second semester work-study job at UCLA’s playfields without really thinking much about it. It’s fifteen hours a week, and he just has to sit at the front booth and swipe people’s student cards when they come in. The first few weeks it’s “cold,” at least in Los Angeles parlance, so he doesn’t have to check a lot of people in, and he gets a lot of reading done, even brings his laptop in and gets some work done on his Chinese Politics paper. 

Second week of February, though, the sun comes out and the temperature warms up, and waves of students start pouring in, mostly guys throwing a pigskin around and a few ultimate Frisbee nuts. The weather holds all the way into the third week of the month, and it’s a Wednesday night when Harry settles in for his 5-10 shift, figuring it’s going to be a busy one.

His stomach tightens a little when a couple guys walk in, boots hanging around their necks, blue warm up jackets with “UCLA Soccer” stitched in white on the front. One of them has a football tucked under his arm and that lean, sharp look that all but screams striker. The other is kind of slight, almost lanky, but below his shorts, his calves are strong and well-defined. Midfielder, Harry thinks, before he can stop himself. 

They hand over their cards, and Harry swipes them through. The names flash briefly on the screen—Louis Tomlinson and Zayn Malik—along with their year in school—both juniors, and Harry hands the cards back.

“Thanks, man,” the slight one—Louis—says, “What time do we have to be out of here?”

“Technically we close at 10, but I won’t turn the lights off until 10:30,” Harry replies. The other guy, Zayn, laughs, but it’s not condescending or patronizing or anything Harry was somehow expecting.

“We won’t be here that long, right Tommo?”

Louis rolls his eyes.

“Just because you’re a striker and only have to run for ten seconds at a time—“

Zayn throws the ball at him, just hard enough that it smacks his shoulder, and then he’s sprinting away towards the fields, laughing. Louis picks up the ball, and he’s shaking his head but he’s smiling. 

“I promise we’re actually college students,” he tells Harry, tucking the ball under his arm. Harry smiles a little. 

“I believe you,” he replies. Louis smiles, bounces the ball a couple times like a basketball, lingers for a second longer, then heads for the fields.

“Thanks, man.” 

Harry watches him go, watches as he tosses the ball up in the air and brings it down with his right foot, juggles it almost carelessly to his left, then back to his right as he walks. It’s easy and natural, the casual expertise of someone who doesn’t play football so much as he lives it, and Harry has to look away then. 

-

Liam, his roommate, is already in the dorm when Harry gets back at ten to eleven. He’s hunched over his desk, some book on Engineering Economics open in front of him. 

“Hey,” Harry greets him, setting his book bag down on the chair at his own desk and tugging his sweatshirt over his head. 

“Hey,” Liam says back, leaning back in his seat, “Going to sleep? I can shut off the lights and just use my desk lamp.”

“It’s fine,” Harry says with a shrug, “Don’t have class tomorrow morning.” Liam looks at him for a second, twirling his pen absentmindedly between his fingers. 

“How was work?” he asks. 

“Fine,” Harry responds, wandering over to his unmade bed and flopping down on it, “Pretty low key.” 

Liam is quiet for a second. 

“Are you alright?”

Harry closes his eyes, wishes sometimes that Liam wasn’t so perceptive, so aware of when something was off with him. 

Of course, he also wonders, sometimes, what would have happened to him, what he would have done that first year, if he hadn’t met Liam.

“Yeah. I’m just. Kind of tired,” he says, opening his eyes and rolling his head to the side so he can look at Liam sideways across the room. It’s not a lie, exactly. He is tired. Just. Not tired of what Liam probably thinks he’s tired of. 

“Okay.” Liam pushes back from his desk, gets up and goes over to the light switch, flicks off the overhead lights. On his way back, he takes a little detour by Harry’s bed, pats him companionably on the stomach.

“Get some rest, Styles.” There’s a soft edge to his voice that makes Harry think maybe he suspects there’s more to his fatigue anyways.

-

Harry dreams about football that night. He’s flying down the pitch, ball at his feet, slicing past defenders, playing his strikers through on goal, and he doesn’t know what the score is, he just knows he can’t be stopped. He gets tackled, hard, and for a second he thinks he’s okay, but then his knee explodes with pain—

He wakes up, gasping, clutching at his right knee where it’s hooked at an awkward angle in the sheets.

It’s 3:15 AM, but he doesn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

-

Harry works again two days later, and around 6 PM, Louis and Zayn show up, this time with a third guy, blonde and a little bit stockier than the other two. His name pops up as Niall Horan on the computer screen when Harry swipes his card, and as Harry hands it back, he sees the gloves hanging off the strap of his gear bag. 

“Keeper?” Harry asks, before he can stop himself. Louis sort of drapes over Niall’s shoulders, wraps an arm around his neck.

“He’s the only one of us that’s any good with his hands,” he says with a grin. Niall pushes him off, tries to get him in a headlock, but Louis dodges, darts behind Zayn for protection. Over Zayn’s shoulder, he catches Harry’s eye for a split second, and Harry isn’t sure, but he thinks Louis winks. 

For the rest of his shift, Harry tries not to watch as Zayn and Louis basically do target practice on Niall, hitting shots from 30 yards out, then coming back and taking it in 1 on 1, feet flying through stepovers and feints that have nothing to do with showboating and everything to do with trying to throw Niall off his balance. Harry can tell, even though he’s not watching, he’s really not, that Zayn is better in the one on ones, at making those exquisite cuts with the inside and outside of his foot and squaring his hips so he can send the ball slicing into the back of the net, while Louis is better at rifling shots in from outside the 18, picking out a corner and lasering it in with his laces, or curling it in with his instep. And Niall, well. Niall saves more shots than he lets in.

When they leave for the night, at five minutes to 10, Louis catches Harry’s eye again, offers a tentative smile, and Harry politely smiles back.

Half an hour later, after he’s shut everything else down and checked the gates, he starts across the main field, angling for the generator box at the other end. It’s quiet and he’s alone, the turf crunching crisp and stiff under his feet, and as he treads over the halfway line, he slows, stops for a moment, stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans and looks out over the empty pitch. He allows himself to think, for just a second or two, about how he might receive a pass here, with his back to the touchline, how he might hang the ball out in front of him, try and bait the defender, take the space when the defender moves in for the tackle, square his hips and send that cross in—

As quickly as he allows the thoughts in, he shuts them out again. Starts walking again. Turns the lights off. Walks back in the dark.


	2. Chapter 2

“So.” Louis glances up from his notes on nationalist movements of the 20th century and finds Zayn eyeing him from across their pushed-together desks. Their freshman year, when they were roommates by lottery instead of choice, it was the only way they’d been able to arrange their shoebox of a dorm room and still have room to actually move around. Now, two years later, it’s a habit, and Louis, only half-jokingly, says Zayn’s work ethic inspires him to study more. 

“Yes?” Louis asks, reaching over and stealing a stray French fry from the remnants of Zayn’s dinner that he picked up on the way back from the playfields. 

“Any particular reason we’ve decided those playfields are our new favorite?”

Louis chews thoughtfully on the French fry.

“It’s downhill from our dorm?” he offers. Zayn rolls his eyes.

“Which means we have to walk uphill to get back afterwards and I have to listen to you complain the whole way,” he retorts good naturedly. Louis tucks his feet up under him on his chair, starts pulling at a stray thread on the hem of his sweatpants. 

“It obviously doesn’t have anything to do with that cherubic underclassman manning the front booth, right?” Zayn says after a second.

“Ooh, ‘cherubic,’” Louis teases, “What’d you do, eat a dictionary?”

“Excuse me, English major,” Zayn responds, pointing at his own chest, “And I know you’re a politics major, but don’t deflect.”

Louis encircles his ankles with his hands, rubs a thumb over one of the bruises that Niall gave him during their earlier kick-about. 

“He’s cute,” he says after a moment, “I’ve seen him around, but I never got a chance to talk to him before.” 

It’s funny how, when Louis first got to know Zayn, he tried to keep it a secret, tried not to let on that he went for guys instead of girls. For some stupid reason, he’d had the idea that Zayn wouldn’t be particularly receptive. And then, one night at a party after a win over UC Santa Barbara, Zayn plopped down on the couch next to Louis, beer in hand, slung an arm around his shoulders and leaned his head against Louis’, one happy, slightly drunk teammate to another.

“Santa Barbara’s keeper had a great ass, don’t you think?” he’d said, just loud enough for Louis, but no one else, to hear. Louis had looked at him, gaped (“like a goldfish” Zayn cackled later).

“You’re—are you—you are,” he’d sputtered, and Zayn had squeezed his shoulders, deliberately and meaningfully and definitely not drunkenly.

“I just like to keep an open mind,” he’d said.

And that had been that.

“I think he was in my creative writing seminar last semester,” Zayn says thoughtfully, pulling Louis out of his reverie, “Got up and read a couple times. Wrote some really good stuff, if I recall correctly.”

“Shut up,” Louis groans, grabbing a balled-up piece of paper from his desk and chucking it in Zayn’s direction, “You’re just saying that because you know I like bookish, intellectual types.”

Zayn blocks the paper missile with his hand, picks it up and wings it back, gets Louis in the forehead. 

“Yes,” he says with a smirk that softens quickly, “I’m also saying it because it’s true.’

“God, cut it out,” Louis grumbles, picking up his pen again, “Don’t make this into something more than it is.”

For a second he thinks he’s won and Zayn’s going to leave it alone. 

Then,

“His name’s Harry.” Louis jerks his head up to glare at Zayn, but Zayn just shrugs, smiles sweetly back. “Just in case you were wondering.”

“I _wasn’t_.”

-

The first Monday in March, Zayn has a massive midterm to study for and Niall is down with a cold, so Louis goes to the playfields alone. He already went for a run in the morning, before class, but he’s still antsy, too much pent up energy and not enough exercise. During the season he’s going hard for an hour in the morning at the weight room and three hours in the afternoons at training, but in the off season they’re kind of on their own, and he plays with a local team on the weekends, but they don’t have formal training sessions either. 

He gets to the fields just after 8, so the lights are already on, and there are a few people doing laps, a few others throwing a football around, but the main pitch is mostly empty. He digs his student card out from his bag, feels his stomach wriggle a little when he sees who’s working the front booth, and simultaneously curses and thanks Zayn for putting a name to those green eyes and those ridiculous curls.

Harry greets him with a cursory smile, swipes his card, hands it back.

“Thanks,” Louis says. Harry nods, pushes a section of his hair back from where it’s fallen in his eyes. 

“No problem,” he replies, “No teammates tonight?”

Louis’ stomach does that little wriggling thing again because oh, Harry actually remembers him?

“Nah, they wimped out on me,” he says, “And by wimped out, I mean they actually have valid excuses for not being here.” 

Harry laughs, just barely, but it’s there, and Louis finds himself thinking he should do it more often. 

“10:30, right?” he says.

“Unless you feel like spending the night out here,” Harry replies. There’s the tiniest quirk at the edge of his mouth.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Louis says. Harry smiles, a little wider, and gestures toward the field.

“Alright, well. Enjoy.”

“Will do.”

-

Louis loses track of time, out on the pitch. He runs a few laps to clear his head, mixes in a few windsprints, relishes the burn in his calves. Shooting practice gets old fast because he has to chase after his missed shots himself, and so he settles for zig-zagging patterns back and forth across the pitch, cutting left, then right, imagining a defender here, another one there, stepover, feint, and sprint away, leave them in the dust. He gets into a zone, sweat dripping in his eyes but he doesn’t even bother wiping it away. His legs burn and his lungs strain for oxygen, but he thinks to himself, 90th minute, national championship on the line, and he pushes through one more sprint to the touchline.

The ball skitters away from him at the end, rolls out of his vision, and he leans over for a few seconds, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. When he straightens up again, he sees Harry standing a few feet away, one foot on the ball, hands tucked in his pockets, shoulders hunched a little against the cool night air. He’s taller than Louis expected, and a little lanky, but there’s something solid about him even so. 

“Kicking me out?” Louis asks, breathing deeply, blood still thumping hard in his veins. 

“Yeah, sorry, it’s almost 11,” Harry responds, looking genuinely apologetic, “I didn’t want to interrupt you but—“ he waves a hand toward the pitch “—regulations.” 

“No, that’s my bad,” Louis says, raising his hands up and resting them on top of his head to try and open up his lungs some, “I didn’t realize it was so late. I’m sure you’ve got stuff to do early tomorrow morning.”

Harry shrugs noncommittally and passes the ball back to Louis, and even in that one movement, Louis can see that he’s no novice. 

“Do you play?” he asks, flicking the ball up with his right foot and catching it in his hands. 

“No.” Harry’s response is sharp, almost harsh, a clear warning signal to back off, and Louis does, although it has about as much to do with Harry’s suddenly shuttered expression as it does with his one-word answer. He looks—sad, and sadness on anyone is hard for Louis to take, but on Harry, it’s wrenching. 

“Okay,” he says, quietly, hopes Harry hears the implicit apology, “Thanks for…you know, letting me stay late.”

“Yeah. No problem.” Harry’s expression is back to normal, but his tone is still clipped, and Louis decides that’s probably his cue to leave. He picks up his bag from where he left it by the goal, changes back into his trainers, and heads for the front gate. The lights are still on as he leaves the playfields, and when he glances back over his shoulder, he sees Harry standing at midfield, alone.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry takes a few days off from work to study for midterms, but he’s back in the front booth the evening after his last exam, and Louis and Zayn show up at 7:30 on the dot. Louis offers a smile, but nothing more, and Harry’s not exactly sure what to do with the slight swoop of disappointment in his stomach that follows.

Later, he sees Zayn leave, but not Louis, and when 10:30 rolls around, Harry steps out of the booth to take a look and sees Louis still out on the pitch, playing keepy-up, tapping the ball low on his laces, flicking it up so he can catch it on his chest, then letting it roll back down to his feet. He’s loose, relaxed, and the ball moves like he has it on an invisible string, like he’s telling it what he wants it to do and it just obeys. 

Harry walks out onto the field, starts across it, and he gets within about twenty feet before Louis notices him, lets the ball finally fall to the ground. 

“Gonna have to kick you out again,” Harry says as he approaches. Louis rests his right foot on the ball, rolls it side to side.

“I figured,” he replies. He pauses, then continues, “Didn’t see you around the past few days.”

“Midterms,” Harry explains with a half-smile. There’s another swoop in his stomach now, but it’s not one of disappointment.

Louis rolls the ball up onto his laces, balances it for a second before letting it drop again.

“The other guy, your coworker,” he observes, “He wasn’t nearly as accommodating as you are.”

“Aiden?” Harry asks, rhetorically because he knows who was filling in for him, “Yeah, he kind of likes to go by the book.”

“He was nice about it, but he definitely kicked me out the second the clock hit 10:15.” 

Harry smiles at the indignation in Louis’ voice, scuffs his toe against the turf.

“I have a confession to make,” Louis says. Harry glances up at him, raises an eyebrow. Louis purses his lips, looks down at the ball again and rolls it around with the sole of his boot.

“I’ve pretty much just been coming around here to see you,” he says. 

_Oh_ , Harry thinks. 

“You don’t even know my name,” he replies after a second or two. His cheeks feel warm.

“Harry,” Louis responds, “Right?”

“Uhm,” Harry says and his cheeks feel even warmer. Louis huffs out a half-laugh.

“Sorry, I’m sure that sounds creepy,” he admits, “My roommate, he had you in a class last year.”

“…Zayn?” Harry ventures after a moment of thought. Louis nods, and Harry mentally slaps himself because how did he not put that together sooner. 

“He’s a really good writer,” Harry offers. He knows he’s avoiding the original point of this conversation, but he’s still not sure how to respond to Louis’ admission, and avoidance has always been something he’s been pretty good at. 

“Yeah. He said the same thing about you, actually.”

Harry doesn’t really know how to respond to that either, so he just sort of nods. Louis flicks the ball up into his hands, sets it under his arm, against his hip.

“I uhm. I usually get coffee at the Starbucks in the student union. Before my 10 o’clock class. If you feel like joining me.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, just moves past Harry, on the edge of his personal space, and heads for the other end of the pitch to pick up his bag

-

Liam comes back from his 8 AM class just as Harry’s heading out. It’s 9:15, and Harry’s never up this early.

“Where are you going?” Liam asks, feigning suspicion. 

“Meeting someone,” Harry replies, because he’s not going to lie to Liam, of all people. 

“Someone?” Liam repeats, lips quirking upwards, “Does this ‘someone’ have a name?”

“Yes.”

Pause. Liam rolls his eyes.

“God, you’re going to make a hell of a lawyer some day,” he groans, “ _What_ is his name?”

“Louis.”

“Tomlinson? Plays midfield for the school team?”

Harry nods. So he had been right about Louis, that first day.

Liam tilts his head to the side in thought.

“I had my first year seminar with him. He seems like a good guy.” 

Harry smiles a little, because “seems like a good guy” is a pretty big compliment, coming from someone like Liam. Liam has a big heart, but he’s not naïve about people, and he’s also fiercely loyal, and Harry remembers a party last year where some guy was getting a little too handsy with him and he was a little too drunk to push him away, but Liam put a stop to it with a hand fisted hard in the collar of the other guy’s shirt. 

“Let me know how it goes,” Liam says after a few moments, “When you get a chance. If you’re not too wrapped up in him, that is.”

“It’s just coffee, Li.”

“Is that what you kids are calling it these days?” 

“Oh god, good bye now.”

-

“Holy shit, you aren’t serious.”

It’s 10:30 AM, and Louis is missing his class and Harry should really be thinking about getting to his class, but right now all he can really focus on is Louis, sitting across from him, laughing so hard he’s practically in tears.

“Yes!” he exclaims, burying his face momentarily in his hands. When he resurfaces, his eyes are bright, giddy with amusement, and Harry has to laugh along with him, he can’t help it. 

“Ask your roommate about it, I’m sure he remembers it,” Louis concludes, between hiccups of laughter, “I doubt I have the good fortune of having people forget that I managed to break a desk on the very first day of school.”

“I’ll do that,” Harry affirms with a nod, “While everyone else was laughing, he was probably worried you had gotten hurt or something.”

Louis smiles and reaches for his coffee, takes a long drink, and the silence between them is comfortable, in a way that Harry doesn’t think he’s ever felt with anyone else, except maybe Liam. He doesn’t feel obligated to continue the conversation, to come up with something interesting, and at the same time he feels like if he does say something, it’ll actually be heard. They’ve talked about roommates and friends and family and the classes they’re taking, and the conversation’s never lagged, and Harry just feels kind of giddy and giggly inside because he can’t remember the last time he felt like this. 

“So,” Louis says, setting his coffee down and reaching across the table to rest his fingers along the inside of Harry’s wrist. It’s not the first time he’s touched him—when they were up ordering their drinks, Harry had felt the momentary warmth of a hand pressed along his lower back—but it’s the first time touching bare skin, and Harry’s hyper-aware of it, the gentle, almost-not-there pressure. 

“So?” Harry prompts. 

“So,” Louis starts again, “Zayn and I are having a party this Friday. Nothing crazy, just drinks and maybe some beer pong in our dorm. If, uhm. If you and Liam want to come by.”

“Sure,” Harry says with a nod, “Fair warning though, I’m terrible at beer pong, and Liam’s even worse.”

“I’ll bet you five bucks Zayn is worse than both of you put together,” Louis replies with a wink.

“Gonna tell him you said that,” Harry warns. Louis laughs, reaches over and pulls a pen out of his backpack. He leans over until Harry can feel his breath on his skin, and carefully etches his phone number onto the back of Harry’s hand.

“10 PM, Friday night,” he says, tapping the number with the end of the pen as he stands up, “Garrison Hall, room 557.”

“I’ll be there,” Harry promises. Louis smiles, grabs his backpack and swings it over his shoulders.

“Looking forward to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last final on Monday. Then this fic can *really* take off. :)


	4. Chapter 4

“Just so you know, I may or may not have thrown you under the bus to induce Harry and Liam to join us tonight.”

Zayn eyes Louis over the edge of his red, rum-and-coke filled plastic cup. They’re leaning against Louis’ desk, watching Niall and a couple of their teammates playing Flip Cup along the edge of their closet-doors-turned-beer-pong-table and Zayn’s got his stereo on low-medium volume, some top-40 hip-hop stuff that Louis actually doesn’t mind.

“Am I supposed to be surprised by that?” Zayn asks. 

“No. Just a friendly warning.” 

Zayn rolls his eyes, but before he can answer back, Louis feels his phone buzz to life in his pocket. He doesn’t recognize the number, but when he picks up the call, he instantly recognizes the voice that greets him.

“Louis? It’s Harry. We’re—Liam and I—we’re here.” Louis smiles.

“Be right down.”

He ends the call, stuffs his phone in his pocket, and heads for the door, gets a friendly/encouraging thump on the shoulder from Zayn on the way out. He’s halfway down the stairs when he turns the corner and quite literally runs into Harry. Harry lets out an “oof” of surprise and then a plaintive, not quite genuine “ouch” as Liam runs into the back of him. 

“Graceful,” Liam comments. He’s laughing, and it’s good-natured, not condescending. “Is that how you greet all your guests?”

“Uhh, no.” Louis is proud of himself for actually managing a coherent response, because he’s just got a look at Harry, and sweet mother of _god_ he looks good. The change from his usual attire isn’t all that big, just a dark sweater instead of his usual t-shirt, and jeans that look a cut above the usual college stuff, but Louis kind of feels like he’s seeing Harry for the first time all over again. 

“Sorry,” he says, a little belatedly, “Come on, follow me.”

-

Two hours and four beers later, Louis is leaning against his desk, watching Liam trying to show Zayn how to aim the ping pong ball for the last cup on Niall and Josh’s side. He’s well aware of how close Liam and Zayn are, how they look almost literally joined at the hip. But he’s also perhaps even more aware of the long, lean line of Harry’s arm against his own. He glances sideways, catches Harry in the midst of taking a long pull on his beer, and has to look away again because he has this sudden urge to know what it feels like to press his lips to the pale expanse of Harry’s throat. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, without really meaning to. Harry looks over, then, and Louis feels the muscles shifting in his arm. 

“Alright?” he asks, and it’s quiet, meant for Louis alone. 

“Yeah,” Louis replies, “Think maybe I just need some air.”

Harry looks at him for a long moment. His expression is soft around the edges, but he doesn’t look drunk by any stretch of means. 

“I’ll go with you,” he says, setting down his beer. 

They leave the room, mostly unnoticed, although Louis catches Zayn’s eye briefly as he steps out, and the walk down the stairs is quiet. Louis hasn’t brought his keys, so he grabs the trashcan from the front lounge and wedges it in the front door to keep it open. It’s a typically cool Los Angeles night and Louis takes a deep breath, relishes the fresh air. 

“Zayn and Liam seem to be getting close,” Harry comments eventually. He’s leaning against the window next to the door, hands in his pockets. 

“Yeah,” Louis agrees with a small smile, “Who’d’ve thought?” Harry hums good-naturedly, lets his head fall back against the glass. Louis watches him, and when Harry looks down, catches his eye, he doesn’t look away. He closes the distance between them, until he’s standing inside Harry’s personal space. 

“Can I. Can I try something?” he asks. 

Harry nods. 

Louis leans in, fits his mouth carefully against Harry’s, lets it linger for a long second, then draws back. Harry is looking at him with wide eyes, and Louis isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. 

“I uhm. I should go.” 

Bad thing, Louis realizes with a sinking sensation in his stomach. He steps back, looking at the wall, the window, the trashcan, anything except Harry because clearly he’s pushed too hard too fast, and maybe he’s read this whole thing wrong from the beginning. He keeps his gaze resolutely averted as Harry moves past him, footsteps receding away in the quiet night air, and when he goes back upstairs and Liam and Zayn ask where Harry is, he just shrugs, says he decided to turn in early. Liam eyes him carefully, like he’s not sure if he believes him, and Louis feels like shit for lying, but he figures once Harry tells Liam what actually happened, Liam will be pissed at him anyways, so the end result is going to be the same.

Later, when everyone else has left and Louis has drunk just enough to be morose, he tells Zayn everything. He figures Zayn will be pissed at him too, because he’s probably screwed up Zayn’s chances with Liam, by proxy or something like that. 

But Zayn isn’t mad. He doesn’t even acknowledge Louis’ apology about fucking up whatever he’s got going on with Liam. 

“Shit, Louis,” he says, walking over to where Louis is sprawled on Zayn’s bed, too tired to get up. He doesn’t sound angry, though. “I really thought…”

“Yeah,” Louis says, but it comes out more like a sigh, “I did too.”

-

Harry pretends to sleep in late the next morning. He doubts Liam actually buys it, because even when Liam’s trying to be quiet, he usually wakes Harry up just by moving around in the dorm. It’s normally not that big of a deal because Harry can just fall back asleep, but right now, the last thing Harry wants to do is talk to Liam about last night. 

It’s not that he didn’t want to be kissed, not that he didn’t want _Louis_ to kiss him. 

Not that it didn’t feel _amazing_. 

It’s just that Harry doesn’t know, doesn’t know how to reconcile how much he wants more of Louis, of his smile and his laugh and his quick-witted sense of humor, with how much it hurts that Louis has everything, _is_ everything that Harry ever wanted to have, wanted to be. 

It was four years ago, and Harry doesn’t give a shit what doctors say about the human brain not remembering pain—he remembers it like it was yesterday. He remembers seeing the tackle flying in, a blur of color in his peripheral vision, remembers thinking “this is going to hurt.” Remembers the hard bite of studs in his upper calf. Remembers his knee giving way. Remembers the horrible, terrifying wrench behind his kneecap. 

Remembers lying on the ground, one hand fisted over his face, as much out of pain as out of despair. Looking back on it, he thinks maybe he knew, even then, and he was just in denial. 

The doctors told him, even before the surgery, that he was done, that if he ever wanted to walk again, he had to walk away from the one thing he loved, the one thing he wanted to do for the rest of his life, the one thing he felt like he was really good at. 

So he did just that. He walked away. Didn’t go to see his teammates play. Didn’t keep in touch with any of them. Stopped watching Premier League and La Liga on weekends. Threw away recruiting letters from colleges without even looking at them. 

Moved away from home, because he knew his parents were disappointed, even though they never explicitly said so. He was supposed to be their bragging rights, their claim to fame, their success story to wave around to their status-conscious friends. Gemma filled that role fantastically, All-American swimmer in high school, full scholarship to USC, three-time national champion, and then she went on to law school and got a job at one of the top firms in LA. Harry was supposed to be next in line. 

Suddenly angry, he rolls over, punches his pillow a couple times, buries his face in the fabric and bites down the urge to scream in frustration. He wishes he’d never been injured. Wishes he’d never played football at all. Wishes he’d never fallen in love with it. 

Because then maybe he’d be able to fall for Louis.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cackling madly* Done done done with finals. Hello five weeks of being lazy and indulging in fic writing. :)

Louis wakes up the next morning feeling like he’s swallowed a whole pack of cotton balls. He gropes blindly at Zayn’s desk, knows he left a bottle of Gatorade there the night before, and makes a satisfied noise when his fingers close around it. The Gatorade’s warm, but it feels good on his dry throat. Zayn grumbles a sleepy, grumpy noise from somewhere in the covers beside him.

“Gimme some of that.”

Louis hands it over, and Zayn surfaces long enough to take a drink before burrowing back under the covers. Louis sits up, swings his feet over the edge of the bed, and gauges his hangover at about a 5 on a scale of 1 to 10.

“Hey, Lou?” 

He glances over his shoulder. Zayn is eyeing him over the edge of his comforter. 

“I uh. Liam.”

And just the way he says Liam’s name, like it’s something special, tells Louis everything he needs to know. 

“You can badmouth me to him, if you need to,” he says, “Like, so he won’t think I’m like a bad influence on you or something.”

“Christ, Louis. That’s not what I was going to ask at all.” Louis looks away again, and he feels Zayn press a hand to his back, rub up and down his spine. It’s comforting, and he needs it.

“I was just going to ask if you were okay with it. With me and Liam.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Harry and Liam seem really close. I just don’t want this to become like, a situation where someone gets excluded, you know?”

Louis shrugs, looks down at his bare feet.

“I’m not going to like, dictate what you should do. Whatever happens, happens.”

Zayn’s hand comes up to rest at the base of his neck, thumb stroking along his hairline.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out with Harry.”

“Yeah.” Louis allows himself to revel in the comfort for a few seconds longer, then pushes himself to his feet. Zayn doesn’t try to stop him, but Louis can feel his eyes on his back as he leaves for the bathroom.

-

Harry snaps out of a genuine nap to a take-away container with a sandwich and chips inside being tossed onto his stomach. He grabs at it clumsily before it can slide off him and blinks up at Liam, still not fully awake.

“Thanks,” he croaks. He must really look like shit, because Liam just eyes him with a slight frown before handing over a bottle of juice. He retreats to his own desk and lunch, and lets Harry sit up, take a few swallows of juice.

“So,” he says once Harry is awake enough to start digging into his food, “Feel like telling me what happened last night?”

“…not really,” Harry mumbles, taking a bite of his sandwich. Turkey with pepperjack, onions and banana peppers. It reminds him how well Liam knows him, how Liam’s been there for him when pretty much no one else has been. 

“It’s just. Louis.”

“Did he do something?” Liam’s tone is carefully neutral, which, for Liam, is like the equivalent of a death threat from a normal person. 

“No. I mean, yes. But not bad.” Harry scrubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Fuck. I don’t know. It’s fucked up.” 

“Okay.” Still carefully neutral, and Harry feels kind of shitty because none of this is Louis’ fault and he doesn’t want Liam to think badly of him because Harry is stupid and emotional and immature and can’t get over shit that’s in the past. 

“He kissed me. And I wanted him to. I said he could. But, like. When he was actually kissing me, I couldn’t. I freaked out.”

Liam’s expression softens.

“That’s okay,” he says, gentle now, “It’s. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“I know,” Harry replies, “It’s not. It’s not that.”

Liam waits, tactfully quiet.

“I used to play football, you know?” Harry says finally. His throat aches, a physical reaction to the memories flooding his mind’s eye, and fuck, this is why he doesn’t talk about it. 

“You never mentioned that,” Liam observes. 

“Yeah, because—“ Harry’s voice breaks and he looks up at the ceiling, eyes hot and stinging. He looks back down when he thinks he’s got himself under control again, but he knows he’s fighting a losing battle. 

“Because I got forced out,” he explains, “I got an injury. Right before my senior year. And I couldn’t play anymore.”

“Would you have. Would you have played in college?”

“I don’t know.” Harry looks up at the ceiling again but it’s too late and he can feel a single traitorous tear sliding down the side of his face. “I was. I don’t know if I was good enough to play D1. But the year I left, my team, they won the national championship. So. Who knows. Maybe.”

He brushes angrily at the wetness on his face, resists the urge to dig his nails into his own skin because fuck. 

Liam gets up then, grabs a box of tissues from his desk, and walks over to Harry’s bed, deposits the box on his lap before sitting down next to him. Harry grudgingly takes a few of the tissues, jabs at his eyes. 

“So it’s stupid,” he says after a second or two, “Like, I shouldn’t resent Louis for being this amazing footballer and playing for a D1 school, because it’s not his fault that like…I can’t get over my own shit or whatever.”

Liam huffs out a breath.

“There are so many things wrong with that sentence I don’t even know where to start,” he mutters. Harry shrugs, because he’s not the type to go fishing for reassurance or affirmation, but it’s. Nice. To hear that maybe it’s okay to feel like this, maybe it’s okay that he’s not a hundred percent over this yet. 

“You really like him, though, huh?” Liam asks, and it’s not the end of the more difficult parts of this conversation, Harry knows they’ll come back to them later, but Liam has always known when to push and when to back off, especially with Harry. 

He crumples up one of the tissues in his hand, tosses it toward the trash can by his desk. It falls woefully short.

“Yeah,” he replies, “I think I really do.”


	6. Chapter 6

A week passes. Louis doesn’t go to the playfields, doesn’t ask if Zayn and Niall go. He goes for runs instead, long, five and six mile runs through campus and the Westwood neighborhood, iPod volume a couple notches higher than is probably good for his eardrums, and he hits the gym a few times too, lifts free weights until his shoulders ache and his arms shake with fatigue. He sequesters himself away in the library between classes, gets literally weeks ahead on his readings, and by Friday he’s starting to feel okay again. Not great, but okay. 

He’s back in the dorm that evening, browsing some of the latest Champions League results, when Zayn comes in, unslings his backpack, and walks over to Louis’ desk. 

“What’s up?” he asks, looking up at his roommate. Zayn digs his phone out of his pocket, scrolls through it, and sets it screen-up on Louis’ desk. Louis leans over, looks at the screen, and it’s a text message. 

_From: Liam  
April 18, 10:24 PM_

_its not a problem of liking him its just that harrys got some stuff hes dealing with and its just hard for him_

Louis reads the message a couple times, debates whether he should be hopeful about the first part of it or pained by the second part, or maybe just annoyed that they’ve been talking about him behind his back.

“Okay,” he says, noncommittally, sitting back. 

“I just thought you deserved to know,” Zayn explains, taking his phone back, “I’m not saying that like…you should wait around or something. But. It’s not that he doesn’t like you.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, half to himself. 

Pause.

“Maybe we uh…maybe we could go over to the playfields some time next week?” Zayn suggests, and it’s an open question, not meant to be a push in any particular direction. 

“…let me think about it, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

-

Harry barely looks at the people who are coming in to the playfields anymore. Just being here reminds him of how stupid he is, how he fucked up something that probably could have been really good, if he could have just let it. He doesn’t delete Louis’ number from his phone, because that would just be too clichéd, but sometimes he pulls it up, looks at it, and thinks maybe some day, some time, he’ll have the guts to call him up and tell him why, why he was so stupid. 

Right now, though, he doesn’t really have the words. His stomach still hitches when he watches people out on the fields playing football and his knee throbs an unpleasant reminder and he _aches_ with the unfairness of it all, and then he just hates himself for it, because it’s just football right, it’s just a sport, he’s got plenty of other things going for him.

It still hurts though.

He’s engrossed in a particularly dense reading for his Chinese politics class one night when someone clears their throat to get his attention. He holds out his hand, finishes up the sentence he’s on, and looks up just as the card slides into his palm. 

“Oh,” he says, before he can stop himself. Louis is standing there in front of him, looking about as unsettled as Harry suddenly feels. He fumbles a little with Louis’ card, finally manages to swipe it through and hand it back. 

“I uhm.” Louis toys with the card, flips it nervously between his fingers. “I’m sorry. If I pushed too fast. Or like. Made you uncomfortable.”

“…you didn’t,” Harry responds after a second of hesitation, “It’s.” He stops, looks down at his hands for a second.

“I want to like…explain it to you,” he says, “I just. I’m still kind of working things out for myself.” Louis’ expression clears a little then, settles. 

“Okay,” he replies, “I mean. I’m not. I’m not going anywhere.”

And Harry aches again, but for a different reason this time. 

Later, when Louis leaves just before 10, he slows his stride as he passes by the front booth, taps his fingers lightly on the desk. Harry looks up and gets a soft-edged half-smile in return. 

“Have a good night, Harry.”

Harry smiles back, wonders if it’s just his imagination or if Louis’ smile gets a little wider.

“You too, Louis.”

-

Louis shows up the next evening, and the evening after that, and the evening after that too. On the third night, Louis stops on his way out, leans into the booth and taps his knuckles against the top of Harry’s notes. He looks flushed and sweaty and relaxed, and Harry feels the sudden urge to kiss him. 

“Hey,” he says instead. Louis shifts his bag on his shoulder and rests his weight on his elbows. 

“Can I walk you back?” he asks. Harry smiles a little.

“Sure.” 

He goes to shut off the lights, comes back to lock up the booth, and Louis is waiting for him outside the main gate, juggling absentmindedly in his tennis shoes. Harry sticks out a foot, pokes the ball away, and Louis gasps in mock indignation, runs after the ball before it can bounce out into the road. 

“How dare you,” Louis chides, throwing the ball lightly in Harry’s direction.

“Ouch,” Harry says, even though it doesn’t hurt at all. Louis laughs out loud and reaches for the ball again, but Harry grabs for it first, bounces it out of his grasp. Louis tries to reach around him to get at it, and Harry steps into his space to block him. 

“Think you’re clever, do you?” Louis says, sounding delighted, and next thing Harry knows, Louis is trying to push him bodily out of the way. He’s warm and solid against Harry’s side, all lean muscle and sinew, and for a second Harry kind of wants to back away because it just makes him think about why Louis is so strong and how Louis actually does this for real on pitches across the country, under stadium lights, against some of the best footballers in the country.

Then Louis gets an arm around Harry’s waist, playful and reassuring at the same time, and Harry grabs him in a loose headlock, stumbles a little when Louis tries to tumble them both to the ground. Louis is laughing, trying to dig his fingers into Harry’s ribs, and Harry’s trying to squirm away, flattening his palm over Louis’ face to try and distract him. Louis blows a raspberry in Harry’s hand, and Harry slaps his cheek gently in retaliation.

“Truce?” Louis asks, a little breathlessly. He has one hand resting on Harry’s hip, the other gripping Harry’s wrist around his neck, and Harry’s back is a little sore from wrestling half-bent over, but he kind of doesn’t want Louis to let go. 

“Yeah, alright,” he agrees after a second. He releases Louis, straightens up, and pulls a little at his rumpled clothes while Louis goes to retrieve the ball. They start walking again, and Harry is aware of Louis’ arm brushing against his own. 

“So, Zayn and I, we’re planning to watch the Champions League final next weekend, over at this bar in Pasadena. If you’re. If you’re interested in going. I think Liam’s going to go.”

Harry feels the familiar knot in the pit of his stomach, the sudden tension in his shoulders at the mention of football, but then Louis touches his arm with the back of his fingers, almost like he can sense his tension, and his stomach settles.

“Yeah,” he replies, and just saying it, it’s like something opens up in his chest, “Yeah, that sounds like fun.” 

Louis smiles, bright and maybe a little bit relieved. 

“Good,” he says. 

They make it to the front door of Harry’s dorm, and Harry suddenly feels a little awkward, because he’s not sure what to do, whether he should give in to the urge to kiss Louis, or if maybe it’s still too soon for that, for Louis and for himself.

Louis saves him the trouble. 

“So. Can I kiss you good night?” he asks, gripping the strap of his bag maybe a little tighter than usual. 

“Yes,” Harry replies.

“You’re not going to like…run away from me again?” Louis asks, stepping closer. 

“Well, I’m going to run up to my dorm and fall asleep,” Harry responds, biting back a smile. 

“Smart ass,” Louis retorts, closing the last few inches between them. He presses his lips to the corner of Harry’s mouth, achingly tender, and Harry turns his head a little, wanting more, but Louis pulls back a bare inch.

“Good night,” he whispers, and he’s still close enough that his lips ghost over Harry’s when he speaks, “Sweet dreams.” 

-

Harry sleeps better than he has in ages that night. 

-

“You’re uhm. Glowing.”

Louis throws the ball at Zayn as he steps into the dorm, dodges out of the way when Zayn throws it back. 

“Am I?” he asks, tossing his keys onto his bed and letting his bag slide off his shoulder. 

“Did you talk to him?” Zayn asks, setting down his pen.

“I invited him to go watch the Champions League final with us.”

“And?”

“And he said yes.”

Zayn smiles, a little too soft for a smirk.

“Quick worker.”

“Wow, pot, meet kettle. Who was practically in Liam’s pants after a grand total of two hours?” Louis feels loose, almost giddy with relief and elation, and he dances over to Zayn, tries to mess up his hair.

“Hey! I am a gentleman thank you very much.” Zayn swats at him, but it’s good natured and he’s smiling.

“Uh huh.”

“Ouch. Your skepticism wounds me.” Zayn clutches theatrically at his chest. Louis eyes him for a second, then quick as a whip, grabs at the back of his chair and upends it, slow enough that there’s no danger of Zayn actually getting a concussion, but fast enough that he tumbles into a gloriously indignant heap. He’s already running for the door when Zayn scrambles to his feet to come after him, and he manages to get halfway down the hall in a vain attempt to reach the stairs when Zayn catches him. It’s actually a new record for him—Zayn usually manages to catch him a hell of a lot sooner than that, but it doesn’t really matter now because Zayn’s got him wrapped up in some sort of elaborate headlock and is penning something undoubtedly obscene on his forehead. Louis squirms, and Zayn yelps in dismay.

“You messed it up!” 

“You were *drawing* on my *forehead*,” Louis retorts, squirming some more until Zayn lets him go. Louis rubs at his forehead, and Zayn makes a face. Louis sticks out his tongue, edges around him and heads back to the dorm room. He glances in the mirror by the door as he walks in, sees what looks like the beginnings of the words “Boo Bear” and regrets ever letting Zayn find out about his childhood nickname.

“God, you’re so mature,” he grumbles as Zayn saunters back into the room, still twirling his pen between his fingers. 

“I know,” Zayn smirks, poking Louis in the side with the pen. He goes back to his desk, gets settled again, and Louis starts pushing things around on his own desk, pretending like he’s actually going to get some work done tonight.

“So. Not that it’s any of my business but. Did you ever. I mean, did he ever tell you what was up, before?” Zayn asks. 

“No. He said he’s still …working it out for himself. And like. I feel like I should respect that.”

“Liam thinks he’ll tell you. Eventually. Like, he thinks it’ll take time, but. Yeah.” 

Louis hums an acknowledgment. 

“And, like…just so you know. Liam hasn’t told me, either. The details, I mean. I know as much as you do.”

Louis nods at that, inwardly a little relieved that Zayn preempted that question for him. Then again, Zayn has always been one of the most perceptive people he’s known when it comes to social dynamics, so maybe he shouldn’t be all that surprised.

“So, _Liam_ ,” he says after a few moments of comfortable silence.

“Liam,” Zayn acknowledges, and wow, Louis is pretty sure he’s never, ever heard Zayn sound like that before. 

“He’s kind of amazing,” Zayn volunteers after a short pause, “Like, I’m still not actually sure he’s real.”

Louis laughs a little.

“You think he’s secretly like, an alien from some wonderful planet of perfect boyfriends?”

“Yeah. Or, like…an angel. Or something. I don’t know.”

Louis would make fun of Zayn for being so sappy, except he glances over at his roommate and the look on his face is almost heartbreaking in its honesty, and okay, maybe Louis will let him off the hook, just this once. 

“Just don’t forget the rest of us mortal beings, yeah?” he teases gently. Zayn rolls his eyes, flings his pen at Louis, hits him in the chest. 

“Only when you’re not being irritating.”


	7. Chapter 7

It’s Barcelona against Chelsea in the final that weekend, and Zayn drives them all over to the bar in Pasadena in his moody old ’95 Civic. Louis gets them a first round of Guinness, knows Zayn will grumble about it, but drink it anyways, and then buy them a round of Newcastle in retaliation. ESPN’s commentators are yammering on about Barcelona’s midfield and Chelsea’s defense, and as Louis settles in to his seat next to Harry, Harry tilts his head toward the screen.

“Tiki-taka or long-ball English style?” he asks. Louis blinks, because he’s never heard Harry talk football before, but the terms roll off his lips with ease, like he doesn’t just know them from hearing them, but he actually knows what they mean. Across the table, Louis catches Liam share a quick look with Harry, sees Harry’s lips quirk a little in response.

“I like the one-touch stuff, but those forty-yard Hollywood passes are pretty impressive too,” Louis offers in response. Harry smiles a little, looks like maybe he’s going to say something more, but then doesn’t. 

Ten minutes into the match, Barcelona get called for offsides. 

“Ivanovic was playing him on,” Harry says, even before the replay. ESPN shows the replay then, and he’s right. Louis looks over at him, intent on asking this time, but Harry’s looking down at his beer with an unreadable expression, and Louis thinks about the last time he tried to ask Harry about football, and it hits him, kind of suddenly, that maybe football is actually kind of a painful subject for Harry. 

“Hey,” he says instead, quietly, ducking his head down so they can at least have a semblance of a private conversation, “Alright?” Harry straightens, flashes him a quick smile, but it’s a little guarded. 

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

Louis eyes him carefully. 

“We can leave. If like…if you want to. Go find a quiet coffee shop and get away from all—“ he gestures vaguely over his shoulder to where Zayn is still half-heartedly yelling his dissatisfaction with the referee at the TV screen—“this.” 

Harry smiles again, and it’s genuine this time.

“No, it’s okay,” he says, “Let’s stay.” 

Just as Louis reaches for his beer again, he feels Harry touch his arm, light fingertips on the inside of his forearm.

“Thanks though,” Harry says, barely loud enough to hear over the bar noise, “For asking.”

It’s like that for the rest of the match. Harry sees things in the game that Louis only catches on the second or third replay, notes passes that should have been made, predicts both Barca’s second and third goals, and then Louis will look at him, sometimes catch Liam looking at him too, and Harry’s expression will shutter a little, close off. Louis wonders, intermittently, whether maybe this was a mistake, bringing Harry here, but then Harry will nudge him with an elbow, lean into him, laugh in his ear about how absolutely head over heels Liam and Zayn are for each other, and the contrast makes Louis’ chest do weird, strange, pulling things.

Barcelona win 3-1, and Liam wallows a little, but it’s not like he, or anyone else, didn’t see it coming. They get back to campus just after 3 in the afternoon, and Liam and Zayn wander off on some vague errand, and if it was anyone else, Louis would expect that “errand” was code for “make out” and/or “sex,” but with those two, it probably means having a really deep, intellectual conversation about something actually meaningful. 

“So,” he says, turning to Harry as they stand there on the front steps of Louis and Zayn’s dorm, watching Zayn and Liam walking away.

“So,” Harry agrees, leaning against the railing going down the center of the steps so he’s standing opposite Louis. He stretches out a foot until he can poke lightly at Louis’ shin. Louis pokes back.

“So. I mean.” He takes a deep breath, hopes broaching this subject now goes better than it did before. “How do you know so much about football? You really know your stuff.”

Harry stiffens momentarily, then sags a little, turns his head sideways and looks off toward nothing in particular.

“Used to play. A bit.”

Louis waits for him to elaborate, but it’s clear Harry’s not going to.

“But you…don’t, anymore?”

“No.” Harry’s still looking away, and now he’s got his arms crossed almost protectively over his chest. There’s a furrow in his brow, a slight downward turn to his mouth, and even as tall as he is, it’s like he’s shrinking in on himself. 

“It’s just. I got this injury, yeah? When I was 16. And I couldn’t play anymore afterward. And football was like, basically all I wanted to do. So.”

Harry cuts himself off abruptly, swallows, and Louis, Louis just _hurts_ for him, because he knows how cruel the sport can be, he’s seen injuries end a lot of teammates’ aspirations around him, and it’s always like a reminder to him, that he’s basically leading a charmed life, that in a split second, a bad tackle or even a bad step could take it all away. He doesn’t know what he’d do without football, it’s like this innate part of him, and it hits him, _hard_ that this is the thing from the past that Liam was referring to in his text message. 

“Fuck,” he says, “Fuck, Harry, I’m. That’s really shitty.” It’s not very eloquent, or particularly comforting, but Harry turns back to him, and he doesn’t look offended or put off. Just. Sad.

“That first time,” he explains, “When I freaked out and ran off. It was just. Like, you’re this amazing footballer and. I don’t know. You’re living my dream, I guess. So I was—jealous? Or something like that.” Harry looks down at his feet, scuffs the toe of his shoe along the ground. 

“Football,” he starts again after a pause, dropping his arms to his sides, “Football made me feel. Worth something. You know? Like, I was good at it. And. So. When I couldn’t play anymore. I felt like.”

Louis moves then, knows what’s coming, and he won’t—can’t—have it. He wraps his arms around Harry, squeezes one hand at the back of his neck.

“If you say worthless, I’ll hit you,” he warns quietly, lips against the shell of Harry’s ear. He feels Harry slump a little against him, tuck his head against his shoulder, and when Harry huffs out a sigh, Louis can feel his breath on his skin.

“I want this to work,” he says eventually, voice muffled a little against Louis’ neck, “I really want this to work. But. You. Will you be patient with me? I can’t like, promise that I’ll be able to go to all your games or like…talk to you about football all the time.”

Louis pulls back just enough so that he can press his lips to Harry’s temple.

“I’m not going anywhere.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it. <3

“Ready?” 

Harry tugs nervously at his scarf, looks across the hotel room at Liam.

“Yeah.” 

Liam eyes him for a second, then walks over and rearranges his scarf, smoothes down the lapels of his jacket.

“It’ll be okay. And if it’s not, we can leave.”

Harry takes a deep breath, nods. 

“I know. We won’t have to leave.”

Liam smiles a little, gives a last affectionate tug on the end of his scarf.

“He’s going to be thrilled when he finds out you’re there.”

-

Columbus is fucking _cold_ in December. Harry can’t believe they’re still playing outdoors here. He’s shivering well before kick off, and he’s eternally grateful to Liam for bringing an extra blanket to wrap around them.

Despite the cold weather, the stands fill up impressively, and by the time kick off rolls around, the atmosphere is pretty good. It’s the national championship after all. Harry warms a little when the teams walk out onto the pitch and Louis is at the front of the UCLA line, the captain’s armband snug around his right arm. It was a toss-up, he knows, between him and Zayn, for the captainship their senior year, and only a very few select people know that Zayn voluntarily deferred to Louis because he felt like Louis could lead the team better from his vantage point in the midfield.

The line ups are announced and the national anthem is played, and then the teams huddle up on their respective sides, and Harry feels a vicarious jolt of nerves, not because he’s about to watch his first live football match in years, but because he knows the feeling of lining up for a championship match, knows it innately, and the adrenaline rush, the sudden, sharp focus and heat in your veins, it’s simultaneously the best and worst feeling in the world. He thinks of Louis, arms around his teammate’s shoulders as he gives them last minute instructions and encouragement, meant for their ears alone, and it calms him a little. 

Ten minutes in, UCLA fall victim to what can only be deemed a rotten piece of luck. Indiana swings in a wicked bending corner and Niall manages to punch it clear. The UCLA defense pushes up to cover it, but the right back lags about a half step behind his center backs, and when the ball comes looping back in, it’s just enough to play Indiana’s #10 onside. Niall does his best, but the striker goes around him and passes it into the back of the net for an early lead. The UCLA fans are going crazy because in real time, it looks offside, but Harry replays the sequence in his mind, and he can see that it was on. Barely. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, his breath making white little puffs in the air. Liam rubs a reassuring hand over his back, but his expression is tight with anxiety. 

The match more or less falls into a stalemate then, mostly because Indiana drops everyone except their lone striker back behind the ball, apparently content to park the bus and protect their 1-0 lead. Dangerous game to play, Harry thinks, especially because it’s giving UCLA’s outside backs free license to roam forward and drop crosses into the box. They’ve wasted a good number of chances by the time halftime rolls around, but all it takes is one to blow this match wide open.

“Hot chocolate?” Liam asks, as the teams start to file off the pitch when the halftime whistle blows.

“That’s not a real question, is it?” Harry teases in reply. He’s actually kind of forgotten about the cold, in his intense focus on the game, but now that there’s nothing to concentrate on, he’s starting to notice it again. 

Liam gets up, heads to the concession stand. As he does, Harry sees him stop by the barrier separating the stands from the field, lean over and say something to Zayn as he heads into the locker room. A few minutes later, he comes back with two steaming cups of hot chocolate in hand, and Harry takes a huge gulp of his, careless of the way it scalds his mouth and throat on the way down.

“Lifesaver,” he tells Liam and Liam laughs a little, wrapping his hands around his own Styrofoam cup. 

-

Louis is halfway from the locker room to the pitch for the second half when a familiar arm drapes around his shoulders. 

“Hey,” he says, glancing sideways at Zayn, “Let’s get this done, yeah?”

“Bet your ass, captain,” Zayn replies, “Expect a few offsides calls though. I’m planning to play that back line to the inch.”

“Fair enough.”

They reach the entrance into the stadium, and Zayn tugs Louis closer.

“Section 25,” he says, almost conspiratorially. 

“What?” Louis says, but Zayn is already jogging away. Louis turns around, surveys the stadium, and sees the numbers painted onto the concrete dividers for each section of the bleachers. Behind his own goal is section 1, so he shifts his gaze, swings around until he finds 25, near midfield. At first he just sees a cluster of UCLA fans, decked out in blue and yellow sweatshirts and hats and scarves. He jogs toward his position, still scanning the group of fans, frowns a little when he still doesn’t see anything in particular. It isn’t until he’s slowed to a walk and is windmilling his arms a little to loosen up and relax that he recognizes Liam in the midst of the fans, the hood of his dark blue UCLA sweatshirt falling off his head, and next to him—

_Oh._

Louis drops his arms to his sides, turns away before his prolonged look turns into a stare, and rolls his right ankle, suddenly, intensely aware of his own body, his own movements, his own space. 

The first time. The first time Harry comes to see him play, and it’s the biggest game of his life. The last game of his college career. Maybe the last game of his career, ever. 

“Zayn,” he calls out, loud enough that his voice carries to the center circle where Zayn’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, awaiting the kick off. Zayn looks over his shoulder, eyebrows raised, but when he sees Louis’ questioning look, he shrugs his shoulders a little to say he didn’t know, smiles, then raises a clenched fist to just below eye level. It’s at once a silent declaration of war and a gesture of support, and it settles Louis, grounds him.

The whistle blows.

-

If Louis was playing well in the first half, he’s playing out of his skin in the second. Indiana start trying to hack him down when they realize he’s taking their midfield apart piece by piece, but he evades their tackles like he’s got a sixth sense for when they’re about to fly in. 

Harry has to look away a couple times, because some of the tackles are too close for comfort, make his knee ache an uncomfortable reminder. Liam notices, squeezes his knee in reassurance.

It takes fifteen minutes before Louis finds Zayn with an impeccably timed through ball to split the defense. The linesman’s flag stays down, and Zayn jimmies left, right, freezes the keeper in his tracks, goes around him and slots home like it’s nothing, like the national championship isn’t resting on the line. The stands erupt, and so does the UCLA sideline, and Harry’s chest swells, aches with pride and maybe a little bit of jealousy. Liam hauls him up into a celebratory hug, and he’s smiling so hard his eyes are crinkly at the edges.

“Now it’s a game,” he exclaims over the crowd noise.

“Now it’s a game,” Harry agrees. Down on the field, Zayn and Louis are forehead to forehead, hands fisted in each other’s jerseys, and Harry can only imagine what words are being exchanged, because he remembers that feeling, that expansive, all-encompassing gratitude and love you felt for your teammates when they did something for you or because of you, and he never even played in a game close to the magnitude of this one. 

-

Two minutes and change left. Louis knows they’ll have little, if any, stoppage time. The boys are tired, he can tell, but they’re digging deep and they’re making the plays they need to, and they’re so fucking close to that one break that they need, he can feel it. 

Indiana tries a through ball to their main striker. Niall is quick off his line, scoops the ball up and stands his ground when the striker tries to run him over. He distributes the ball a second later, a laser-accurate throw to his left outside back, and Louis is on the move, getting himself open in that all-important space between the 18 yard box and the midway circle. His outside back sees him, sends him a good firm pass onto his left foot so he can turn with it in one motion. Two of Indiana’s strikers converge on him, and he hangs the ball out in front of him, baits them just far enough to make some space for him to move up and ping a twenty yard pass to his right outside mid. 

“Space!” he yells, already sprinting past the two Indiana players, crossing the halfway line and into Indiana’s half. His right mid goes around one Indiana player, picks his head up, and fires in a long, bending cross. 

Zayn rises up to meet it, takes it down on his chest. There’s one defender on his back, another lurking five feet away, waiting for a gap to dart in and break up the play.

“Top of the 18!” Louis yells. Zayn flicks his eyes up, sees him. Lays the ball out _perfectly_ for him. Louis feels the characteristic surge of adrenaline in his veins, inhales deeply to quell it as he steps into the shot. 

Meets the ball with his instep. Feels it curl off his foot, exactly like he wants it to. 

Lifts his head up as he follows through. Tracks the flight of the ball. 

Hears someone yell “Get in!”

Knows.

-

The instant Louis hits the shot, Harry grabs Liam’s shoulder. 

“Goal,” he says into the sudden, breathless silence. The ball curls curls curls. 

Ghosts the tips of the Indiana keeper’s fingertips. 

Slices into the back of the net. 

Harry knows he’s shouting, yelling, but he can’t even hear himself over the sudden roar of the crowd around him. Liam is shaking him by the shoulders, half-hugging him with one arm, other hand in the air. They almost get tumbled over by a bunch of fans falling over the back of the bleachers behind them, and down on the pitch, Harry catches glimpses of Louis getting buried under a heap of deliriously happy teammates and coaches. 

-

The final whistle blows a minute and a half later. Harry and Liam join the other UCLA fans in flooding the pitch. Harry doesn’t actually expect to find Louis in the crowd, but all of a sudden there are arms around his neck and a body leaping on his back and laughter in his ear. 

“Holy fuck!” Louis shouts, burying his face in Harry’s scarf. Harry laughs, reaches back and rests one hand at the back of Louis’ head.

“You were amazing,” he says, and he means it. He actually kind of feels like he might explode with pride.

Louis drops off his back, all but bounces around until he’s standing in front of Harry. He’s flushed and sweaty and grinning, bits of turf on his cheek and forehead from being at the bottom of the celebratory dogpile, jersey dirt-streaked and half-untucked, armband askew.

 _Beautiful_ , Harry thinks. 

Louis’ grin fades into something softer. He steps closer, sneaks a finger inside one of the belt loops of Harry’s jeans. 

“I’m really glad you came to watch,” he says. 

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Harry replies honestly. He wouldn’t have. No matter what. He knows how much this means to Louis. And Louis has been beyond patient with him all these months, hasn’t pushed him, even once, even a little, has just always _always_ been there, with affirmation and reassurance and brilliant, adoring smiles, gentle fingertips wiping away the occasional frustrated tears.

Louis steps closer still.

“Kiss me?” he asks, and Harry just kind of shatters at that because it’s so genuine and perfect and wonderful, it’s Louis realizing how big of a step this was for Harry, it’s Louis realizing that they’re standing here on the pitch where he just won the national championship, it’s Louis realizing that kissing him here, without permission, might kind of feel like laying claim, or establishing superiority.

So he nods, breathes out a “yes,” closes the last few inches between them and sinks his mouth into Louis’. Louis opens readily to him, lets him tongue cautiously at his lower lip. It feels _amazing_ , and when Harry draws back, it’s only to lean his forehead against Louis’.

“Okay?” Louis asks, bringing a hand up to stroke a thumb over Harry’s cheekbone. Harry smiles.

“Okay,” he agrees quietly. _Okay,_ he thinks, _Happy. Healing. Worth it._

 _Loved_.


End file.
